


dearest darlingest,

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 80s AU, First Kiss, Fluff, Highschool AU, M/M, i'm not entirely sure what's supposed to be happening here- just take it, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 10:55:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11080107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: dearest darlingest dallon,i’m sorry for kissing you on the first of june, 1986 (yesterday). in hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t have hit me so hard. i’ll give you back the jacket you lent me if you give me back my heart xxwith love,b





	dearest darlingest,

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a great writer. Like, I know how grammar works (although I took some creative liberties), but I can't write stories. Just take this. It's short and it's gay. Enjoy.

It’s the second day of summer and there’s a napkin pressed flat in the middle of the table. A napkin (pink) that wasn’t there before. Upon closer observation, I see that the object in question is a note. It’s difficult to make out the pen writing, but I have a good eye for chicken-scratch.  
It reads:

_dearest darlingest dallon,  
i’m sorry for kissing you on the first of june, 1986 (yesterday). in hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t have hit me so hard. i’ll give you back the jacket you lent me if you give me back my heart xx_

_with love,  
b_

Oh. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the first day of summer and I’m going to kiss Dallon Weekes in the middle of the park. Okay, I’m too much of a coward to pull anything like that. But I will kiss him. And I know he’ll let me because Sarah told me that Breezy told her that Vicky told her that Gabe told her that Dallon Weekes likes boys. 

And so I drag him to the park, to the tree behind the fountain behind the community center. It’s cold, for June. It rained last night and the grass is dewy and the air bites to compensate for the lack of mosquitoes. And I’m cold, so he gives me his jacket, and then I take off my glasses and I kiss him right on the lips. As thanks, you know? And then he hits me, and then he apologizes, and then he runs away. What a weirdo. 

Better write him a napkin letter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_may thirty-first, 1987_

“So why _did_ you hit me?” 

I’m walking Brendon home after school (at his behest) when he asks the question. In all honesty, it catches me completely by surprise and I almost stop walking. I do, though. Stop walking, I mean. He stops too, then steps back a little bit to align himself right next to me. He takes off his glasses to clean them, almost forcefully nonchalant. 

“What… what do you mean?” I know full well what he means.

“You know full well what I mean,” he scoffs, folding his glasses and sliding them into his pocket. “So, why did you?” 

After the summer, the kiss and the note, Brendon and I hadn’t spoken much about the matter. We continued our friendship as normal, to my disappointment, which only fed my guilt.

“Reflex,” I offered. “I still feel awful about that, you know.”

He glances at me, and I glance back. He flexes his wrists, then his fingers, and then tugs at my hand and we continue to walk in silence.

“I don’t regret it,” he blurts after a bit. I’m almost surprised. He stops again, then looks at me expectantly. He’s waiting for an answer.

“I’m…” I pause. Whatever I say is going to make me look like a flustered, clumsy mess, so might as well go for it. “I’m glad you don’t.” I finish carefully, deciding on a relatively safe reply. Brendon seems satisfied, and we continue yet again. We’re not even on the sidewalk anymore, we’re at the edge of the woods by the neighborhood. Conversational wandering makes it hard to follow directions. Brendon is jittery – he almost always is – but almost more so right now. He twists his hands together, looking at me with wide, glowing eyes. His lips are slightly parted in thought, and they’re nice lips. And they’re nice eyes, too. I never really notice how nice his face is, I guess. 

“If I kiss you again, will you slap me again?” He asks.

 _Give me a heart attack. Jesus Christ._ I gulp, glancing away briefly.

“Possibly.”

“I’ll take that risk,” He says, and then he kisses me right on the lips. And maybe I kiss him back. And I don’t slap him, either.


End file.
